


Scaredy Cat

by GallaPlacidia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bizarrely, Depressed Harry, Draco Malfoy is a small and adorable kitten, Drug Use, M/M, Neville-bashing, Pining Harry, because I actually really like Neville, infidelity (not involving drarry), lingering war trauma, ok fine I'll admit it, stress-catism, there's ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29924775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallaPlacidia/pseuds/GallaPlacidia
Summary: Draco is cursed and starts uncontrollably turning into a kitten whenever he's stressed. There is, of course, only one logical solution: he must move in with Harry until they figure out how to break the curse.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 362
Kudos: 571





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this irresponsibly early so it may not post as often as usual! "I will not post until I have 10,000 words," I told myself last night. But CARPE DIEM, YOLO, etc.

“It’s not funny!” said Neville.

“It’s a little funny,” said Malfoy.

“You could have _died_ ,” said Neville. Malfoy shrugged. He looked studiously comfortable in Harry’s office chair, although he hadn’t looked at Harry once. Malfoy, Neville and Hermione had stormed into Harry’s office half an hour ago, and Harry had yet to figure out _why_.

“Look,” said Harry, “can someone explain to me why you’re all here?”

Hermione, Neville and Malfoy all fell silent.

“I still don’t see why we’ve come to Potter,” said Malfoy, sullenly. Neville nodded.

“I don’t either. Hermione, can’t _you_ —”

“No!” said Hermione. “I’ve told you both, I’m too busy with the election, and Harry will be able to keep Draco safe better than I can, so—”

“I’m not comfortable with Draco just _moving in with Harry_ ,” said Neville, at which Draco laughed bitterly and said,

“Yes, well, you gave up to right to be comfortable with my actions when you fucked my cousin in our bed on my birthday, didn’t you?”

“Hang on,” said Harry, who hadn’t had any coffee that morning, and was coming to deeply regret it, “hang on. Draco’s moving in with me? And Neville—Luna?”

“Luna’s fancied Neville for ages,” said Malfoy. “It’s not her fault. Do you know all you had to do, Neville? Just _not shag her_. It’s actually deceptively simple. I’ve never shagged her once. Happy to give you tips, if you need.”

“I’m _sorry_ , okay, I said I was sorry—” said Neville.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, why the fuck are you guys here?” asked Harry. Neither Malfoy nor Neville seemed to hear him.

“You’re sorry? Oh, how marvellous,” said Malfoy. “Now I don’t feel betrayed at all. Marry me, Nev! Marry me!”

“You know perfectly well I wouldn’t have slept with her if you hadn’t been so bloody uptight!”

Malfoy made an outraged, mewling sound, then froze.

“Fuck,” he said. “Neville. Go.”

“But—”

Malfoy shook his head. He seemed to be concentrating very hard.

“Please,” he said, and Neville got to his feet.

“I _am_ sorry, Draco.”

Malfoy only shook his head again. Neville looked at him with that disorienting expression he often had when he looked at Malfoy. They had been together for two and half years, and Harry had noticed it, time and time again—the hungry, possessive way Neville looked at Malfoy, and the tentative way Malfoy looked back. Malfoy closed his eyes and started taking deep, steadying breaths.

Neville left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Draco’s been cursed,” said Hermione. Malfoy laughed.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I figured that was why you were here. What sort of curse?”

“I turn into a cat when I’m stressed,” said Malfoy.

“Er,” said Harry.

“A kitten,” said Hermione. Malfoy scowled.

“A cat,” he said.

“A very small kitten,” said Hermione. “About as big as a rat.”

Malfoy opened his eyes.

“Oh, come the fuck on, Hermione,” he said. “A rat?”

“Would you have preferred I said a small ferret?”

“You’re dead to me,” said Malfoy, and Harry was struck by a familiar loneliness.

After the war, the boundaries between friendship groups had grown blurry. Ron had confessed to a crush on Pansy Parkinson and started up a strange and unexpected friendship with Blaise Zabini. Ginny briefly dated Theo Nott. Harry started playing friendly games of quidditch with Marcus Flint. Neville fell in love with Malfoy. It was all very weird, but in a nice way. Harry liked it. They all liked it.

The only exception to the general amnesty was Malfoy, who had quickly become a key member of Harry’s friend group, yet continued to hate Harry.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hermione had protested, when Harry complained about this. “He’s just… shy.”

They had been at Ginny’s twentieth birthday drinks. She had chosen a disgustingly cool nightclub. Malfoy was dancing shirtless on a table.

“Shy,” Harry had repeated. Malfoy did a shot and the crowd cheered.

“Well,” said Hermione, “he doesn’t hate you.”

But Malfoy never looked at Harry. He only ever called Harry by his last name. He was funny and charming around Ron and Hermione, but with Harry he was polite, as if Harry was an adult at teenager’s birthday party.

Harry had tried apologising for sectumsempra, once, thinking that maybe that was the reason for Malfoy’s persistent coldness. He had cornered Malfoy in the kitchen of Malfoy and Neville’s house, while everyone else was playing a high-octane game of _Risk_.

“Hey,” he’d said.

“Oh, hello,” Malfoy answered, his eyes flicking past Harry’s face. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, that’s okay,” said Harry. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you.”

“It’s my go in a second. I want to invade Australia,” said Malfoy.

“Everyone wants to invade Australia. It’s _Risk_.”

“Yes, but I already have control of Indonesia, so—”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. Malfoy frowned, still not looking at him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“About—about sixth year. In the bathroom,” said Harry.

Malfoy opened the fridge, pulled out two beers, and handed one to Harry.

“Don’t do this,” he said, and left. By the time Harry returned to the sitting room, Malfoy had conquered Australia.

Harry wasn’t sure what was so unforgivable about him, when Malfoy had evidently got over all his school animosity towards Ron and Hermione. It made Harry feel small and crazy and unlovable. But that was nothing new, so he sucked it up, and didn’t say anything more about it.

“A kitten,” he said, now. “You turn into a kitten when you’re stressed.”

“I really think it’s more of a small cat. Imagine a very compact lion,” said Malfoy.

“Lions don’t purr,” said Hermione.

“Right. _You_ can fuck off,” said Malfoy. “And actually, I think I’ve done my duty by coming here—Potter knows I have stress cat-ism, and you’ve been a very responsible friend, Hermione, and Neville can go jump off a cliff, and—”

“Draco needs to stay with you while you figure this out, Harry,” said Hermione.

“Er. Why?” asked Harry.

“An excellent question,” said Malfoy. “One for the ages. Why?”

Hermione cast him a sour look.

“Because whoever tried to murder you—”

“That’s a strong word,” interrupted Malfoy.

“It doesn’t seem like a very harmful curse, in fairness,” said Harry.

“Draco, can I have a word with Harry alone, please?” said Hermione. Malfoy sighed, then lifted his eyes to look straight at Harry. His gaze was direct and overwhelming. Harry felt his heart speed up.

“She’s a hysterical woman, Potter. Remember that. Her womb’s probably wandering all over the shop.”

“I do _not_ have a wandering womb,” said Hermione. “Stop telling people that.”

“Could have fooled me,” said Malfoy, standing. God, he was tall, and his legs went on forever. “Oh, bollocks, Neville will be lurking around outside, like those charity people with the buckets outside the tube at Christmas—”

“Go to my bedroom,” said Harry, pointing at another door.

“Ah,” said Malfoy. “Sleeps at the job. Dedicated. Right. Yes. Bed in the office? Why not.”

He slipped through the door into Harry’s office bedroom. It was a bit odd, now that Harry thought about it, but he stayed up so late cursebreaking sometimes, it had seemed only natural…

“Harry,” said Hermione. Harry dragged his eyes away from the bedroom door.

“Hm?”

“Draco was attacked. The assailant cast the curse, Draco turned into a kitten, the assailant put him into a bag with some heavy stones, and threw him in the Thames.”

“Oh, shit,” said Harry.

“Luckily, a little girl saw and fished him out.” Hermione’s lips twitched. “Gave Draco a saucer of milk and called him a very good boy.”

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, trying not to think about telling Malfoy he was a very good boy. “So the curse was cast with malicious intent.”

“And Draco has almost no control. He’s working on it, but until we break the curse, he’s liable to be killed any time he turns. He’s quite vulnerable as a kitten.”

“Hermione, can’t you…?”

Hermione had done cursebreaking for a year after the war. She was better at it than Harry—and Harry was very good. But she’d never really liked handling dark objects, whereas Harry found them fascinating.

Hermione nibbled her lip.

“Harry, I’m so swamped, I’m not sure I can focus on anything but the election—and you know I can’t keep him safe, if someone—”

And then, to Harry’s dismay, she dissolved into tears.

“Oh,” said Harry, coming round his desk to sit next to her. He patted her awkwardly on the arm. He hated it when she cried. “Don’t cry, Hermione. Of course I’ll do it.”

“I’m just so scared something will happen to him,” she said, through tears. “I know you hate him—”

“I don’t,” said Harry.

“—but to lose someone _after_ the war, especially after we’ve all grown to love him, I just can’t, Harry, I can’t—”

“Hermione,” said Harry. “It’s okay. I’ll sort it out. You know I will. Just leave it with me, okay?”

Hermione nodded wetly.

“Thanks,” she said, and hiccoughed. “God, how embarrassing. Sorry.”

Harry’s office bedroom door opened and Malfoy came across the room to kneel in front of Hermione’s chair.

“Were you listening at the door?” asked Harry. Malfoy ignored him.

“Darling,” said Malfoy, putting his hands on Hermione’s knees, “when was the last time you ate something?”

“Breakfast,” said Hermione.

“Breakfast! And it’s nearly _noon_. You’ll starve to death. You’ll waste away like something out of a Keats poem. I can’t have it.”

Hermione was laughing. It wasn’t the way she laughed with Ron and Harry, like the three of them were part of something. It was an affectionate, _oh I love the way you are_ laugh.

“I’m fine,” she said. She glanced at Harry. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m a bit frazzled, that’s all.”

“She’s ravenous,” said Malfoy, decisively. “She’s on her last legs. Can you make it to Nando’s, darling, or shall I carry you?”

“You eat at Nando’s?” asked Harry.

“Potter, there’s not _time_ for your opinions! Can’t you see she’s at death’s door?”

And Malfoy physically picked Hermione out of the chair. She was giggling uncontrollably. Harry didn’t blame her. It was disorienting to discover that Malfoy was _strong_.

“We’ll be back in an hour,” said Malfoy over his shoulder, not looking at Harry. Harry was hungry, and he liked Nando’s, but it was clear he wasn’t invited. Which was fine: Harry had an egg mayonnaise sandwich in his rucksack.

“Harry, d’you want to come?” asked Hermione, through laughter.

“Conserve your energy, dearest,” Malfoy told her. “You’ll pull through yet, by God!”

“No, I have…” said Harry, but Malfoy had already carried Hermione out of the room. “…a sandwich.”

————

“So, er, this can be your room,” said Harry. Malfoy inclined his head, but didn’t say anything. He had scarcely said a word since arriving at Grimmauld Place. “From what Hermione said, you probably shouldn’t go out too much unless someone is with you. But Hermione said you were actually looking for a new place to live anyway, since Neville… er, sorry about that, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I thought Ginny cheated on me once, but actually she hadn’t,” said Harry, then winced. God, had he really said that? Malfoy was looking at him with a puzzled frown.

“You think Neville didn’t actually cheat on me?” he asked.

“No, er,” said Harry. “I mean, did he? It doesn’t seem very Neville.”

“I don’t know, is putting your dick in Luna Lovegood cheating?”

Harry passed his hand over the back of his neck. Malfoy was going to _stay_ with him. He’d be in Harry’s _house_ , an obtrusively hostile presence, until Harry broke the curse.

“Yeah, I mean, that does sound quite cheaty, in fairness,” said Harry. “Unless you had like. An arrangement.”

“An arrangement, Potter?”

“Yeah, you know, like _it’s okay if you shag Luna as long as I can shag Hermione_ , something like that.”

Malfoy looked scandalised.

“ _Hermione!”_

“No, I wasn’t saying—although you do flirt with her a lot—it was just an example.”

Harry had spent several years wishing Malfoy would look at him. Now that it was happening, he wished that Malfoy would stop.

“She’s with _Ron_ ,” said Malfoy.

“Right, well, but if _they_ had an arrangement…” said Harry, mortified.

“My God, Potter,” said Malfoy, and then left it at that, as if he couldn’t bring himself to explain the depths of Harry’s depravity.

“So, er, just make yourself at home,” said Harry. “Maybe after dinner, I could ask you about the curse.”

“Sure, anything to speed this up,” said Malfoy.

——————

Malfoy was not forthcoming about the curse.

“Do you have any suspicions about the identity of the assailant?” asked Harry, trying to focus on his notebook, and not on Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy had his head tilted back against the kitchen wall, and his long throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“Someone who dislikes me, I imagine. Do you know you have mould? You should get that looked at.”

“I have. The house just likes it. Can you think of anyone specific who might have cause to dislike you?”

Malfoy moved his head to cast Harry a disparaging glance.

“Not a soul,” he said, with a curl to his lip.

“It would really help if you had any idea,” said Harry.

“Aren’t you cold?” asked Malfoy.

“No, er, are you?” asked Harry. Malfoy shivered, then stood.

“Neville’s coming over. Hope that’s all right. Figured it would be, since you love him and everything.”

“That’s fine,” said Harry, but Malfoy had already left the room. Harry hated when he did that.

Neville appeared in the fireplace twenty minutes later.

“Hi, Harry,” he said, scanning the room. “Is Draco around?”

“I thought you two were broken up?”

Neville glared at him. They had grown apart, since the war. Neville had got hot, and Harry had got sad.

“It’s complicated,” said Neville.

“Did you really cheat on him?”

Neville didn’t answer. He went to the door, and shouted “Draco!”

Malfoy strolled downstairs.

“Dearest, _faithful_ love of mine,” he said, lounging in the doorway. “I thought I heard your melodious voice.”

“Harry, can I talk to Draco alone, please?”

Harry stood, but Malfoy glared at him. Harry wished people would stop glaring at him. He was having a rough enough day as it was. Malfoy’s hair was falling into his eyes, and Harry wanted to push it back.

“Don’t go, Potter,” said Malfoy. “I don’t want to be alone with him.”

“You’re _so_ melodramatic, can you just be an adult for a second?” said Neville.

Malfoy gave a fierce grin.

“Oh, yes. Let’s be adult. How was it? I don’t mean Luna, Lord help her. How was it for _you_? Did your dick have a nice time? Tell me in glorious, _adult_ detail.”

“Would anyone like some tea?” asked Harry.

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you, Potter,” said Malfoy, quick and glittering.

“You know perfectly well it’s not all on me,” said Neville. “Things were terrible long before your birthday. You never want to have sex—”

“Black tea? Herbal? I have rooibus if you guys don’t want caffeine,” squeaked Harry.

“—yes, and the solution to me having hang ups about sex was fucking Luna, yes, of _course_ ,” said Malfoy. “It all makes _sense_ now!”

“You never used to have hang ups!”

“Yes I _did_! I just didn’t trust you enough to say no!”

“Listen,” said Harry, “this really seems like a two-person conversation.”

“Potter, so help me God, if you leave I’ll smash all your mugs,” said Malfoy.

Harry looked at the mug he was holding.

“I like my mugs,” he said.

“What do you _mean_ , you couldn’t say no?” said Neville. Neville, like many sweet and vulnerable children, had grown up rather hard, rather brittle. Paranoid that people were taking advantage of him, or trying to make him feel guilty.

“You’re fucking _rough_ during sex, Nev. It hurt. That’s why I didn’t want to do it.”

Harry rested his head against his kitchen cabinet and sighed, wishing he was doing something more agreeable, like being tortured, or literally dying.

“It hurt,” repeated Neville.

“What, did Luna not mention? Or perhaps…” Malfoy’s face went red, blood blooming angrily in his cheeks. “…perhaps you weren’t rough with her. Perhaps you’re gentle with people you don’t fundamentally resent.”

Neville looked as if he had been inflated. Harry poured the tea. He’d settled on mint, because he thought that might be soothing.

“D’you know what your problem is, Draco?” said Neville, voice trembling. “It’s the same problem you’ve always had. You could have told me all this, and we would have talked it out—fuck, I _loved_ you—but no, you were too _cowardly_.”

There was an outraged mewling sound, a sudden flash of white fur, and then nothing.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” said Neville.

“Where d’he go?” asked Harry.

“Under the sofa. Draco…”

“I think you’d better leave,” said Harry.

Neville ran his hand over his face.

“Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Sorry about…” he couldn’t seem to look at Harry. “Yeah.”

Harry managed a tight smile. Neville looked at the sofa.

“Draco…” he said.

“Just go,” said Harry. So Neville went.

Harry sat on the ground, then dropped his face so that he could peer into the dim space beneath the sofa.

Two eyes glowed at him, flatly reflective. He could see nothing else.

“You all right?” asked Harry. There was no answer. Harry sighed, then poured some milk into a saucer. “Malfoy? Want some milk?”

There was no movement. Harry left the saucer on the floor, then tried to coax Malfoy out with a peacock feather Ginny had once given him for nebulous sexual reasons. The trouble was that Harry didn’t know what he was dealing with: a kitten, or Draco Malfoy furiously seething inside a kitten’s body.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Harry sat by the sofa for an hour, and Malfoy didn’t move. Harry tried to make the room as comfortable as he could for a kitten or for a very angry man, then went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, all right, FINE, I'll admit that this story is going to deal a fair bit with lingering war trauma. 
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely and frequently hilarious comments (NAZGUL SCREAMING), I'm sorry I'm not able to answer them at present but I do read them all and feel Great Joy!

He was awoken by a small, pathetic meow. It was incredibly quiet and scratchy, as if the kitten had been meowing for a long time and had hurt his tiny throat.

“Malfoy?”

Harry turned on the light. He had left his bedroom door open. On top of the door, precariously balanced, and looking very small indeed, was Draco Malfoy the kitten.

It was the sort of thing Harry would have expected to find funny, but when he was faced with the reality, he simply didn’t. Instead, he leapt out of bed, his heart twisting. The kitten was so little, and looked so frightened.

“Hey,” said Harry, softly. He approached the door with light steps, and held out his hands. The kitten scrambled away, making another soul-scratching sound as he meowed. “Hey,” said Harry, again. “I’m not going to hurt you. Hang on.”

He got a footstool and managed to catch him.

“How are you this soft?” he asked, as he drew the kitten carefully down to his chest. It scrabbled away from him, clearly terrified.

“Ow, fuck,” said Harry, as one of the kitten’s claws caught his skin. In his moment of pain, the kitten leapt out of his arms and fled underneath Harry’s bed. Harry licked at his scratch, then remembered he was a wizard, and healed it with his wand.

“Malfoy,” he said, sitting on the floor by the bed. “Come on. You can come out.”

A small rustling from under the bed, but no kitten. Harry got the peacock feather and made it brush around the floor. He was just about to give up when a tiny paw darted out.

“Ah,” said Harry. “You like the feather.”

The kitten sprang forward, a look of comical determination on his sweet little face. He caught the feather with both paws, and was utterly confused when Harry drew it away. He was a scrabbly little thing, all white fur and huge eyes. More of those tiny, stupid little meows. He stood up on two legs, tried to catch the feather, and fell over.

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Harry. “You are _insanely_ cute, what the fuck.”

They played with the feather until the kitten was panting, and then Harry dared to try and touch him. The kitten ran under the bed, but came out again shortly afterwards, and this time let Harry touch his head. It was then that Harry noticed it was shivering, small tremors shaking its entire body.

“Are you cold?” asked Harry, and remembered that Malfoy had been cold earlier, when he was considerably larger and more capable of handling low temperatures. “Here, let me—”

Harry wrapped the kitten up in a jumper, and after a brief tussle, the kitten gave up struggling and began to purr. Harry suddenly noticed that he was kissing the soft fur on the kitten’s head.

“Shit. Sorry. That’s not okay,” said Harry. The kitten yawned, revealing razor sharp white teeth, then went to sleep. In Harry’s arms.

“Right,” said Harry. He climbed back into bed. The kitten opened his eyes a few times, then recurled himself in Harry’s arms under the duvet, and began to snore very softly.

Harry woke up with his arms wrapped around a very human Draco Malfoy.

“Ah!” he said. Malfoy turned over to look at him, blinking sleepily.

“Why are you _snuggling_ me?”

“You—you were a kitten!”

Malfoy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“No shit.” He frowned and rose out of the bed.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s actually good you saw. Now you’ll be able to break the curse quicker,” said Malfoy, going to the door. He was a little uneven on his feet.

“Hang on. Malfoy. Stop.”

Malfoy paused, his back to Harry.

“I’m sorry we ended up…” said Harry. “You’re just quite cuddly, as a kitten.”

“I’m a cat.”

“By no stretch of the imagination are you anything more than a tiny, adorable kitten,” said Harry.

“Yes, well, this has been sufficiently embarrassing,” said Malfoy, and left.

It was like having a teenager, reflected Harry that afternoon. Malfoy hadn’t emerged from his bedroom all day, and the only sign he was even in the house was the pulsing techno coming through the door.

After dinner, Harry knocked. The music stopped abruptly, then the door opened. Malfoy looked horribly handsome. He licked his lips, and Harry noticed that he had a tongue piercing, which Harry had a hard time not taking personally. It was like Malfoy was _trying_ to be a walking fantasy.

“Er,” said Harry.

“Can I help you?” asked Malfoy, polite as a waiter at a fancy restaurant.

“Why don’t you like me?” burst out Harry.

“Sorry?” said Malfoy.

“You’re friends with Ron and Hermione. You dated Neville. Why don’t you like me?”

“I don’t understand the question. I don’t dislike you.”

“But…!” said Harry. He had spent all day looking up feline curses. Malfoy’s fur had been the softest thing Harry had ever touched. He’d fallen asleep in Harry’s _hands_. “You don’t… you don’t _like_ me.”

Malfoy looked truly puzzled.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something?”

“Just answer the question,” said Harry, hopelessly. He wished he hadn’t asked. He wished he was downstairs, washing dishes by hand and contemplating how short life was, once you’d finished doing all the things people needed you for.

“We’re friends,” said Malfoy.

“No, we’re not,” said Harry, and Malfoy had the gall to look _hurt_. “Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t invite me to your birthday drinks. You invited Terry _Boot_.”

“Boot has good drugs,” said Malfoy. “You wouldn’t think it, would you? But he does.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

“Oh, look…” said Malfoy, slouching against the door, all elegant and shoulder-y, like a sexy panther. “I didn’t think you’d _come,_ if I asked.”

“It’s still nice to be asked,” said Harry, sullenly.

Malfoy seemed to be assessing Harry, and Harry felt certain he was not coming off well. It was awful to have _deteriorated_. It was awful to have peaked so long ago, and so unpleasantly.

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to my birthday drinks.” He paused. “You didn’t invite me to yours, you know.”

“I didn’t have birthday drinks!” said Harry, because he was apparently determined to impress upon Draco what a loser he was.

“Ah.”

There was a humiliating silence.

“Thank you,” said Malfoy. “For last night.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were rather kind,” said Malfoy.

“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry. How much are you _you_ when you’re a kitten?”

“A cat,” said Malfoy.

Harry laughed.

“Right. Sure. How much are you—?”

“Have you made any headway on breaking the curse? Because there’s a flat I was thinking of leasing, but I don’t want to pay rent there for a month if I’ll be here,” said Malfoy.

A heavy weight of sadness fell on Harry’s heart. It did that, sometimes, came down on him like a cloud.

“No,” he said. “I’m working on it.” And he left Malfoy to his techno.

When Harry first noticed himself rolling into depression, he had tried to stop it. He’d gone to parties when he was eighteen, the dorm parties at the curse breaking academy, the kinds of parties where someone had propped the door open with a text book and twelve people were squashed around a desk and a single bed. But when Harry came in, the parties always got weird.

It varied, how people reacted to his fame. Sometimes they pretended they didn’t know who he was. Sometimes they got drunk and cried on his shoulder about how intimidated they were to meet him. Sometimes—more often than you would think—they were nasty to him, as if they were determined to get a Harry Potter party anecdote, and making fun of him or spilling a drink on him was better than just saying they’d made boring small talk with him once.

Ron and Hermione managed all right, but they had each other. Or maybe that wasn’t it, because they were always there for him, of course. Maybe it was just that Harry was boring, when it came down to it. Maybe the most interesting thing about Harry had been that someone wanted to kill him, and now that no longer applied. Certainly that was what Malfoy seemed to think.

Oddly, the only new friends Harry had made as an adult were Slytherins he had known at school. Marcus Flint never asked him difficult questions. Pansy Parkinson had once shown up at Harry’s house, off her face on MDMA, and eaten an entire roast chicken out of Harry’s fridge while telling him boring childhood anecdotes that she evidently believed were profound. Blaise Zabini made fun of Harry on the rare nights Harry ventured to the pub, but in gentle, soothing ways ( _“Ahh, I see Harry’s made time for us in his busy schedule of being the finest curse breaker in all the land. How many orphans have you rescued today, Harry?”_ )—ways that made Harry feel rather important instead of ancient and useless.

Harry felt distinctly useless as he tried to figure out Malfoy’s curse. Malfoy sat opposite him at the kitchen table, looking bored. Harry held his hand, casting diagnostic curses with two fingers pressed against Malfoy’s pulse.

“Have you angered anyone at work lately?” asked Harry.

“I’m an editor. I anger people daily. It’s my job,” said Malfoy.

“Maybe we could make up a list of people who might have cause to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter,” said Malfoy, and pulled his hand out of Harry’s grasp.

“You’re being very uncooperative,” said Harry.

Malfoy laughed. It was an unhappy sort of sound.

“Let’s just write down the names of everyone in Britain who might want to harm me, shall we? Have you got a year or two?”

“People seem to be pretty over the whole war thing, from where I’m standing,” said Harry, drily, because Lucius Malfoy had only served three months in Azkaban. He was now on several important boards, and he dictated the world with his money, just as he always had.

Malfoy fell silent. His nose was a sharp, carved line, and his dark eyelashes swept over his cheek as his blinked. Harry realised that he had wounded him, somehow, although he wasn’t sure how he could tell. Malfoy was quite expressionless.

The floo flared up, and Ron came through.

“How’s the dream team?” he asked, ruffling Malfoy’s hair.

“Dreamy,” said Malfoy. “Tell me how the real world is. I’m dying of boredom.”

Harry winced at his notes. Of course Malfoy was bored. He was with _Harry_.

“Mayhem,” said Ron. “Pansy’s been voted Miss America. Hermione’s joined a nudist colony. Neville—shit, sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m totally over him. Absolutely and completely un-heartbroken.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

“Brilliantly. Potter and I have started a torrid affair.”

Harry choked on his tea.

“Don’t mind him,” said Malfoy. “He’s just worried I’ll reveal how kinky the sex is. Make sure you mention that to Neville, when you next see him. See if you can imply that Potter beats me with a paddle.”

“Stop it,” said Ron. “You’re giving Harry a heart attack.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry. “We’re _not_ having a torrid affair.”

“No,” said Malfoy, abruptly serious. “We’re not. Why are you here, Ron?”

“Just wanted to check you were being nice to Harry,” said Ron, reaching over and eating some of Harry’s toast.

“Am I being nice, Potter?” asked Malfoy.

“You’re being unhelpful,” said Harry.

They sat around the table, Ron and Malfoy chatting merrily away, Harry glumly chewing the inside of his cheek and thinking about what Malfoy had said about Neville hurting him. Malfoy had never been one for pain. Harry was quite sure that there was nothing Malfoy would find sexier than being handled gently.

He thought of the kitten (they seemed separate; Malfoy and the kitten) purring, his little face peeping out the folds of Harry’s wool jumper.

Half an hour after Ron’s arrival, Malfoy’s owl came knocking at the window. Malfoy let him in and pursed his lips when he saw the writing on the envelope.

“Your dad?” asked Ron. Knowingly, as if he recognised that expression, as if he knew a whole long backstory about Malfoy and Lucius. Harry imagined the two of them sitting late into the night as Malfoy spilled his impenetrable heart out. And what had Ron given him in return? What ache had he revealed to Malfoy? Because, of course, Harry knew there were things Ron couldn’t talk to _Harry_ about—how Ron still felt threatened by him, how Ron still had secret fears that Hermione might have preferred Harry, how Ron resented that Harry’s vast inheritance continued to smooth his path. Had he told all that to Malfoy?

Malfoy nodded and ripped over the envelope. His eyes scanned the letter.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” he said, then turned into a kitten.

“Oh my God,” said Ron, then sprawled across the kitchen floor to catch Malfoy before he could flee under the sofa. “Gotcha!”

The kitten swarmed onto Ron’s shoulder, but Ron grabbed him.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re cute as fuck and I’m going to cuddle you,” said Ron.

“Not the height of consent, really,” said Harry.

“Draco would dress me up in a bonnet if I ever turned into a kitten in front of him; don’t talk to me about consent. Holy shit, Draco, you are _adorable_.”

He was holding the kitten up in front of his face. The kitten stopped squirming and began a loud, contented purr, which only increased in volume as Ron flipped him onto his back and cradled him like a baby.

“Do you have to fix the curse? He’s a lot better like this,” said Ron. He scratched the kitten behind his ears, and the kitten stretched languorously.

“What do you think was in his letter from Lucius?” asked Harry.

“Ugh. Who knows. Some shitty thing about Draco being a disappointment, probably,” said Ron, stroking the kitten under his chin. But when Harry came near, the kitten scrabbled to get away, and thrust his head into Ron’s armpit.

“You’re scaring him!” said Ron.

“How am I scaring him?!” said Harry, outraged.

“You always scare him.”

“…what?”

Ron made himself more comfortable on the floor and coaxed the kitten out from under his arm.

“Draco’s terrified of you,” he said, as if reminding Harry of something he already knew.

“What? No, he isn’t,” said Harry.

Ron shrugged.

“Hang on. Has he said something to you?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Ron. “But he is. It’s why he’s so weird around you.”

“But…” said Harry, at a loss. “But I’m not…”

“I _know_ ,” said Ron. “I’ve tried telling him what you’re like, but it’s no doing. Ow! If you don’t watch out, Draco, I’m going to trim your claws.”

“Wait, but what the fuck,” said Harry. Ron looked up, and seemed to finally realise how upset Harry was.

“It’s not because of anything you _do_ ,” said Ron.

“Then what is it?”

Ron scowled.

“It’s because you’re _Harry Potter_.”

“Why would Malfoy care about that? He never did before,” said Harry. The kitten’s fur looked softer than a rabbit’s. He seemed to trust Ron inherently. Harry rubbed at the frayed and painful hangnails on his fingers. He was beyond hurt. The idea that Malfoy was like all those terrible people at the academy parties was a betrayal that went so deep it undermined half his childhood memories.

But Ron just shrugged again.

“He’ll get over it,” he said.

“Right, but what the fuck,” said Harry. “Also, he’s not scared of you and Hermione, and you both did way more than I did in the war, really.”

“Neither of us ever tried to kill him,” said Ron.

“I didn’t try to—”

“No, I know you didn’t, Harry, obviously. Just, he doesn’t know that, does he? Can you understand us, mate?” This latter addressed to the kitten, who continued to purr contentedly. “I don’t reckon you can. Can I put your head in my mouth?”

“Do not put his head in your mouth,” said Harry.

“But it’s so _small_ ,” said Ron.

Malfoy turned back into a human a few hours later. When he came to, he was asleep in Ron’s lap. Ron poked him in the ear.

“Ow!” cried Malfoy, waking up with a start.

“Mate. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Ron.

“Fuck off,” said Malfoy.

“I could have crushed your skull with my hands,” said Ron.

“Potter, I think we’ve found our criminal. Ron here’s a psychopath.”

“How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” asked Harry. _Scared of him_. As if Harry was something rather more or less than human. It made Harry want to shrivel up inside his skin and disappear.

“That’d be great, thanks,” said Malfoy. “Ron, did you just spend two hours snuggling me?”

“Yeah, and you loved it, you furry little creep.”

“Everything all right with your dad?” asked Harry, as he passed Malfoy the water. Malfoy didn’t meet his eyes.

“Nothing new,” he said.

“He’s a twat,” said Ron.

“A stunning insight from Ron Weasley, as always,” said Malfoy. He sighed and stretched. “I’d better go answer him.”

“Stop talking to him,” said Ron.

“Then my mother would have to deal with it,” said Malfoy.

“Let her, for once.”

Malfoy gave Ron a little smile.

“Leave me alone?” he said, and Ron rolled his eyes, and they were really fucking good friends, weren’t they? Malfoy trusted Ron, and maybe even loved him. But Harry—Harry was _frightening_.

“I’m going to bed,” said Harry, and stalked out of the room. He lay in bed and was so lonely it was hard to breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaise Zabini: agent of chaos

Harry had several other cases he was working on. Malfoy worked from home. They ate their meals separately, because Harry tended to eat at his desk at the office. Malfoy was polite, vaguely hostile, and spent most of his time in his room.

He was also very popular. Harry hadn’t been this social in years, because people came around every day to see Malfoy. He’d come home and hear Pansy Parkinson cackling away in Malfoy’s bedroom, or Ron and Hermione would be in the kitchen with Malfoy playing cards. One time, Harry found Luna crying on Malfoy’s shoulder in the sitting room. Harry backed quietly out and never mentioned it.

“Is it true that Malfoy’s scared of me?” Harry asked Blaise. Malfoy was cooking something in the kitchen with Ron and Hermione, but Blaise never helped with anything if he could help it. He was ensconced in the sitting room with a gin and tonic in each hand.

“Scared of you? No, why would you say that?” said Blaise. His eyes darted around the room. He wasn’t a good liar, although he seemed like someone who would be.

“Come on,” said Harry.

“He adores you!”

Harry fixed Blaise with an exasperated look.

“He does _not_ adore me.”

Blaise sighed.

“Draco… is not really over the war,” he said.

“Neither am I! Neither is anyone!”

Blaise looked at him for several seconds.

“Harry… I don’t want to overstep. But are you… all right?”

“I’m fine,” answered Harry automatically.

“Hmm,” said Blaise, still watching him. Then he leant back and took a deep sip of gin and tonic. “Draco’s such a forthcoming drunk.”

“Okay?” said Harry. He was still shaken by Blaise’s question. Hermione asked him that, sometimes, and Mrs Weasley, but it never seemed to register. They loved him in ways that felt concrete, and blind.

“Draco doesn’t talk about the war,” said Blaise, “but when he’s drunk he’s quite, quite open.”

“Are you suggesting I get him drunk and force him to talk to me?”

Blaise looked pained.

“What an ugly way to put it,” he said.

“I’m not doing that.”

Blaise smiled and muttered to himself.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Gryffindor,” said Blaise. “But, you know, it’s not the sort of deceit that Draco feels betrayed by. In fact,” Blaise looked pensive, “I’m not sure deceit is the way to wound Draco at all. Consider: lying is so often a way to care.”

“Think I can do without that sort of care, myself,” said Harry, bitterly. It had come up in his throat, the bitterness. Unexpected, like bile. He stood.

“Harry,” said Blaise.

“‘going to bed,” said Harry.

Blaise looked as if he wanted to say something, but all he said, in the end, was “goodnight”.

Two days later, Harry came home late from work to a drunk Draco Malfoy, and Blaise, smug and black-eyed and watchful.

“Hello, Harry,” he said. “How many maidens did you rescue from fates worse than death today?”

“Saving the world,” said Malfoy, into his wine glass. “Wine, Potter?”

“No, thanks. Blaise—”

Blaise made a show of looking at his pocket watch.

“Look at the time! I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t, Harry, simply _can’t_.”

“Blaise…”

“Goodnight! Do keep Draco company, won’t you? He’ll get dour if left.”

“I’m cheery,” said Draco.

“As an earthquake. Goodnight, all,” said Blaise, and disapperated, which was both rude, and proof of his (in Harry’s opinion) sinister sobriety.

Malfoy peered up at him.

“Wine?” he offered again.

“All right,” said Harry, and poured himself a glass.

“Cheers,” said Malfoy. They clinked glasses, then sat in silence on opposite ends of the sofa. Harry didn’t know what to say. He knew what Blaise _intended_ : for Harry to simply ask all his burning, hurting questions. But it felt like taking advantage.

“Sorry I’m in your house,” said Malfoy, abruptly.

“I invited you,” said Harry.

“Under duress. Because Hermione cried,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah, but I would have done it anyway, if it was what was needed.”

Malfoy frowned and placed his glass on the side table. He stared at it very hard, licked his finger, then began to make the crystal sing, running his index along the rim. He glanced at Harry.

“I’m being rude,” he said.

“Are you?”

Malfoy nodded.

“You’re never supposed to do this.”

He stopped. Harry tried to do it with his own glass, but it stayed obstinately silent.

“It’s not working,” he said.

“You need—” said Malfoy. He shuffled to his knees, took Harry’s hand, and licked the tip of Harry’s index finger. He did it so quickly and in so business-like a manner that for a moment, Harry was fooled into believing it was a perfectly normal thing to do. But by the time he had remembered that it was not, in fact, acceptable to go around licking other people’s fingers, Malfoy was already back on his side of the sofa.

“Try it now,” he said. And when Harry did, it worked. The glass sang a pure, clear note of music. Harry forgot his discomposure—he had felt Malfoy’s _tongue piercing_ —and grinned.

Malfoy did not grin back. He only watched Harry, his features solemn.

“Neville thinks we’re shagging,” he said.

“Er, why?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows moved up and down in a quick, puzzling movement.

“He’s always been a bit threatened by you.” He picked up his glass, then put it back down, unsipped. “He thinks I have a crush.”

“…do you?”

Malfoy just laughed. Harry hadn’t had anything to drink, but he felt suddenly drunk. Dizzy and hopeful and sad.

“I heard something about you,” said Harry. His words sounded loud in his ears.

“Oh, dear,” said Malfoy, and put his head on the sofa arm. “What?”

“Someone told me you were—” it seemed preposterous to say it. Self-important and _stupid_. Malfoy lifted his head. He looked utterly miserable.

“What? Gay? Evil? Thought I’d already come out about those.”

“Scared,” said Harry. “Of me.”

Malfoy just stared at him.

“Which is fucked up,” clarified Harry. “Because I saved your life. And spoke for you at your trial. And you _know_ me.”

“I don’t know you,” said Malfoy.

“Obviously it was stupid. And not true. What that person said.”

Malfoy looked at his hands.

“Malfoy,” said Harry. His voice sounded too stern.

“I’m drunk,” said Malfoy unhappily. Harry breathed out.

“Sorry. You’re right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he said. Malfoy frowned, still not looking at Harry. “It’s just,” Harry said, not completely sure he could control the words, “you were never scared of me, ever, at school. And what the fuck is even scary about me? I mean that’s fucking insulting, actually, right? Because—snakes are scary—”

Malfoy shuddered.

“—and, and _murderers_ are scary,” Harry went on, “which, by the way, I never did murder anybody—and neither did you, so…” he trailed off.

Malfoy swallowed and closed his eyes, as if he was steeling himself to say something very important. What he said was,

“Um.”

Harry shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m… yeah. I’m going to bed. Sorry, again. Do you need anything?”

“No,” said Malfoy, very quietly. “Thank you.”

When Harry left, Malfoy still sat on the sofa, looking at his hands.

* * *

“I tried to cast sectumsempra, summer of sixth year.”

Harry span around. He had been chopping green chilli peppers, and hadn’t heard Malfoy come in. It had been almost a week since the night Malfoy was drunk, and Harry had been avoiding him ever since.

“Sorry?”

Malfoy shifted on his feet. He wore muggle clothes around the house, soft cable-knit jumpers and skinny jeans so tight that Harry had to forcefully remind himself not to stare.

“On a horse,” said Malfoy. “Dead horse. I don’t go around torturing animals.”

“I know,” said Harry, mystified.

Malfoy leant against the doorframe. He never seemed to come into rooms, if he could hover at their edges instead.

“So—dead horse. Off to the glue factory that weekend. I figured… anyway, I tried to cast it. Sectumsempra.” He frowned and plucked at a bit of lint on his jumper. “Didn’t work. It’s one of those intention spells, you know? Where you have to mean it.” He glanced at Harry. “You’ve got to, ah, to really want to slice someone open. To hurt them. You have to really want them to hurt.”

“Draco,” said Harry, helplessly.

“And, you know, I get it, I do. And you were angry. So… when you weren’t angry, in the Room of Requirement, or at the trials—what I mean is, it’s something I admire about you, actually.”

“That I cursed you?”

“That you did what was right, instead of what you wanted.”

“Sorry, just to check,” said Harry. “You think I have some intense desire to murder you that I overcame because of my moral fortitude?”

Malfoy gave an abrupt bark of laughter.

“Yes.”

“That’s not… Draco, that’s not it, at all.”

“I’m Draco all of a sudden?”

“Everyone calls you Draco,” said Harry. He was still holding the knife. He put it down.

“You don’t,” said Draco.

“Yeah, because you call me Potter!”

“ _I_ couldn’t…!” spluttered Draco. “It would have been incredibly presumptuous, if I had started being like, Oh _Hazza_ , Hazza and I go way back—”

“I’m not _saying_ you should have called me _Hazzah…_!”

Draco turned into a kitten and fled under the sofa.

Harry finished cooking. Ate his food. Tried several times to coax the kitten out from under the sofa, to no avail.

In the night, he turned over and elbowed the kitten in the face.

“Shit,” said Harry, as the kitten gave a piteous, sleepy meow, moved a foot away to sit in the crook of Harry’s knee, and went back to sleep. Harry stared at him for a moment, then lay back down.

He next woke up because Draco Malfoy the human, all six feet of him, was getting off the bed.

“Draco,” said Harry. It was the early hours of the morning. The light slanted delicately through the curtains, fresh and tentative. Draco paused with a hand on the post at the foot of Harry’s bed.

“I got cold,” he said.

“I can turn up the heating spells,” said Harry.

“No, it’s fine,” said Draco. He wouldn’t look at Harry, and seemed to waiting for his dismissal.

“Draco,” said Harry. Draco lifted his eyes. Like a guilty creature awaiting punishment. Harry sat up a bit in bed. “I like you,” he said.

Draco’s mouth dropped slightly open.

“Sorry, that came out wrong,” said Harry, hastily. “I’m not—this isn’t, a confession of—I mean, I like you as a person.”

Draco looked no less surprised.

“You’re funny,” said Harry. “You take care of Hermione.”

A long pause.

“Say something,” said Harry.

“I like you too,” said Draco.

“You don’t have to say that.”

Draco knocked on the bed post, clearly just because he wanted something to do with his hands.

“So,” he said. “What now?”

“Erm,” said Harry. “Friends?”

Draco smiled, not looking up.

“Okay,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a sofa in his kitchen, yes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, listen, I, too, thought this would be a nice story about kitten!Draco. The fact that it is in fact about the debilitating mental impact of war has taken me by SURPRISE.

When Harry got back from work that evening, Draco was waiting in the kitchen with fish and chips.

“Friends have dinner,” he said.

“It is known,” agreed Harry.

“Do you eat fish and chips?”

“I honestly eat everything,” said Harry. They sat at the table, spreading the greasy paper and doling out vinegary chips without speaking. Draco was smiling too much. It looked uncomfortable.

“How did you become friends with Ron and Hermione?” asked Harry.

“Aggressively,” said Draco. “And with ulterior motives.”

“Right, well, of course.”

“And it’s easier when you’re eighteen, because you’re more sure of things,” said Draco. Harry gave a wry smile.

“That’s true,” he said. “Not sure of anything much, these days.”

“Anyway, they were surprisingly receptive,” said Draco. “Don’t know why.”

“It was lovely, becoming friends with Marcus and Blaise and everyone.”

“Blaise is obsessed with you.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Harry.

“Oh, not in a sexual way,” said Draco. “You’re not his type. Wait, are you even into guys?”

“Think I’m into anything,” said Harry. “Don’t think the mechanics make much of a difference to me.”

“Hm. That’s refreshing. Anyway, I just mean that Blaise thinks you’re fascinating. He’s always saying he wants to write your biography.”

“God. Why?”

“You should let him, by the way, he’s an excellent writer. And he’d do a better job than Eloise Midgen.”

“What has she got to do with it?” asked Harry, who hadn’t thought about Eloise Midgen since he was about fourteen.

“Don’t you know? She wrote your biography.”

“What?”

“It was crap.”

“You read it?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Draco. “I have a post-war reading group. Well, I say group, it’s just me and Nott and Goyle.”

“That’s a bit fucked up,” said Harry. Draco nodded solemnly.

“Yes,” he said. “We read all the stuff written about the war.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“It’s not.”

“Why would you do that?”

But Draco went vague.

“Oh, you know…” he waved his hand. “But Blaise would do a great job. Not yet, obviously. Wait till you’re in your fifties and have taken out a few more dark lords.”

“Not planning on taking out any more dark lords,” said Harry.

“Sorry,” said Draco, looking embarrassed. “I was being glib.”

Harry tilted his head.

“I know, Draco.”

“Right. This is terrible. Is it terrible?”

“Terrible,” said Harry.

“I’m not at my best when you’re around.”

“You’re doing fine,” said Harry. “How am I doing?

“Fine,” said Draco. “Maybe we’re both being very charming, actually.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry, and Draco smiled.

They spent a lot more time together, after that, although it wasn’t quite comfortable. Draco was too polite, and had a habit of clarifying when he was joking as if he thought Harry was incapable of figuring it out.

“I’d _kill_ for mint chocolate chip ice cream,” he said once, then flushed and added, “not _actually_.”

“Really? You wouldn’t AK someone for an ice cream?” said Harry. It was very late on a Wednesday, and Harry lay on the kitchen floor, because there was no food in the house and it was hopeless.

Draco frowned. He stood by the open kitchen cabinet, poking through old cans.

“You’re making fun of me,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Draco nodded, then pulled out a can of butter beans.

“This will do, with some salt.”

“My life is depressing,” said Harry, as if he was joking, and it worked, because Draco laughed.

But if Draco wasn’t quite as exuberant around Harry as he was with Ron and Hermione, he would at least look Harry in the eye. Ask him questions. _Talk_ to him. It was a marked improvement.

Every suspect Harry investigated was innocent. It was an impossible case, and although Draco never complained (well—he complained in a way that was more comedy than complaint), Harry knew it troubled him. He was, after all, largely confined to the house. Harry overheard him talking about it seriously with Hermione.

“The longer I’m not at the office, the more _dispensable_ I become,” he said.

“They love you,” said Hermione.

“Ha.”

“Anyway, you can sue them if they sack you.”

“There’s my girl,” said Draco, although he didn’t really sound reassured.

A few times, he received letters from Lucius, which invariably prompted him to turn into a kitten. The same thing always happened then: he hid from Harry until he got cold and lonely, then climbed into bed with him. When he crept away in the morning, Harry pretended not to wake up.

Twice, Neville came over.

“I’m not doing this again,” said Harry, and left the house for three hours. When he came back—both times—Draco was a kitten.

“Tell him to stop visiting,” said Harry, the second time. Draco had come back to himself quicker than usual, and insisted on making margaritas.

“I make them strong,” said Draco. “Hope you like headaches in the morning.”

“ _I_ could tell him to stop coming over,” said Harry. “It fucks you up. And it’s not like you’re going to take him back.”

“I’ve invited eight people over. It’s an impromptu party.”

“Draco. You’re _not_ going to take him back.”

Draco handed Harry a margarita.

“Hermione says I never really loved him,” he said, not looking at Harry.

“And? Did you?”

Blaise emerged from the fireplace.

“Impromptu party?” he said, kissing Draco on both cheeks. “Hallo, Harry! Tell me truthfully: how many innocent lives did you improve today between the hours of nine and twelve?”

“Where do you buy your shirts?” asked Draco.

“Draco,” said Harry, and Draco’s hand paused on Blaise’s arm.

“I don’t know, Harry,” he said. Honest and serious.

“Did I interrupt something?” asked Blaise gleefully. “I heard the most dreadful thing about you and a _paddle_ , Harry. I wouldn’t have _believed_ it, if Ron Weasley hadn’t been my source.”

“Leave Harry alone,” said Draco. “It’s not his fault he’s an insatiable sadist.”

“Oh, fuck both of you,” said Harry.

“We’ve never done that, but I, for one, am willing,” said Blaise.

“Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about Swinburne?” asked Draco.

Blaise sighed and threw Harry a significant look.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me, whether I want you to or not,” he said.

“He said—let me see—that Swinburne ‘ _had done everything he could to convince his fellow citizens of his homosexuality and bestiality without being in the slightest degree a homosexual or a bestialiser.’_ ”

“You wound me,” said Blaise. “I have never claimed to be a bestialiser.”

Harry told himself he would bring up Neville again the next morning, but Draco had been quite right about the strength of his margaritas. Harry’s headache was so debilitating he had to call in sick at work, which he had never done before.

Harry was so busy with Draco and Draco’s five thousand closest friends that he didn’t notice he hadn’t been quite so low lately until a bad day struck.

It started in the morning: his alarm went off, and Harry stared at the ceiling, not remembering why it was worth getting out of bed.

At work, he stared blankly at an enchanted snow globe with three small children stuck inside, and distantly recalled that he had, just yesterday, enjoyed his job. All he felt now was a desire to touch the snow globe without his protective gloves and crawl into a small imaginary world.

He forgot to eat lunch. He stood for ten minutes in his office bedroom, the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, and was gripped by strange, flashing memories. He let them sweep over him. He had learnt it was far more painful to resist.

It was bodies, mainly, and not the bodies of people he loved—he never saw Dumbledore or Dobby or Fred or Lupin or Tonks or Sirius —it tended to be the bodies of people he hadn’t known, at the Battle of Hogwarts. Disjointed, mangled corpses. They came upon him at unexpected moments, like a stabbing pain in the spine, and Harry just tried to breathe, to breathe, to breathe.

Grimmauld Place was blessedly empty when he got home—or, at least, Draco was upstairs. Harry made it to the sofa before he burst into dry sobs. He wasn’t sure what he was crying about. He had never been much of a crier, and it embarrassed him that he had weakened so much that he couldn’t keep it together, when everything was so much easier now than it had been. Seventeen-year-old Harry had gone through a war and barely shed a tear, but twenty-four-year-old Harry couldn’t handle a fucking _day in the office_ , what the _fuck_.

There was a sound at the door. Harry looked up. He had taken off his glasses—tears on the lenses, such a mess—but he could make out the white blonde hair.

He shook his head violently, and Draco left without a word. If Harry hadn’t loved him before then, that would have done it.

He cried blankly, after that, the kind of empty weeping that felt more like shock than anything else. Sometimes Harry was just stunned with horror. When he came out of these periods, he was always impatient with himself: Ron and Hermione hadn’t left half their minds on a battlefield. But when the feeling came upon him, there was nothing to be done but buckle down and endure.

That was what he was doing; enduring, when he heard a soft little meow at his elbow. Tiny white paws kneaded tentatively at his thigh.

“Ow,” said Harry, surprised. One of the kitten’s claws caught on Harry’s jeans, and he tried in vain to get his paw free. Harry had to unhook it for him.

“Hi,” said Harry, wetly. The kitten climbed onto his lap. Harry picked him up, put a pillow on his lap so the kitten wouldn’t accidentally scratch him, then lowered him down. The kitten nuzzled Harry’s jumper, curled close to Harry’s stomach, and began to purr vigorously.

Harry stroked the kitten under the chin, and he tipped it up rapturously for Harry’s fingers.

“The thing is,” said Harry. He blinked and a tear fell on the kitten’s fur. “Sorry. The thing is, sometimes I miss it. Because there’s nothing so vivid as war.”

The kitten rolled onto his back. He was so small that Harry could comfortably cover his whole body with one hand.

“That’s a fucking awful thing to say. I know. But sometimes I just… want to see colours the way I used to.” Harry closed his eyes, remembering. “ _Vividly_.”

The kitten was warm, responsive. Harry was still sad and sick with thoughts, but he was comforted. It was good, not to be alone.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Draco turned back to a human. Harry lay lengthways on the sofa, staring at the heavy ceiling, and suddenly the imperceptible weight of a kitten was replaced with the quite noticeable weight of an adult man.

Harry pulled his hands away from Draco’s body, but Draco didn’t move. It seemed as if he was asleep, his cheek pressed into his hands on Harry’s chest.

Very, very slowly, Harry put his hands on Draco’s body. His back muscles were warm through the cotton of his shirt. Harry let his fingers feel the place where Draco’s shoulder blades protruded in soft triangles.

“What happened?” asked Draco, sounding very much awake.

“Sorry!” said Harry, removing his hands. There wasn’t an obvious place to put them, so he just sort of froze in a jazz hands position, which he was aware was not ideal.

“It’s fine,” said Draco. “You can.”

Harry lowered his hands again. Draco had said he could. Harry was visited, briefly, by the memory of Draco calling Hermione a mudblood in second year. Inexplicably, the thought made him press Draco a little closer.

“What happened?” asked Draco again.

“You turned into a kitten. I guess something must have stressed you out.”

“No, I mean, like… did something happen at work, to make you…?”

Draco’s voice was muffled. His hands were warm on Harry’s chest.

“Oh,” said Harry. “No. Nothing happened.”

Draco propped his chin on the back of his hands to look at Harry. His eyes were dark with residual eyeliner. He only wore it sometimes, thank God. He was distracting enough when he _wasn’t_ trying to be hot.

“Harry,” said Draco, with a small frown. “Are you very sad?”

Harry couldn’t speak for several seconds. Draco watched him patiently.

“I haven’t got anything to be sad about,” said Harry.

A muscle twitched in Draco’s jaw. He lowered his face into his hands for an instant then raised it again.

“Shall we have friends over to play _Risk_?” he asked, not quite gently, but something close. Gentle-adjacent, which Harry found much easier to accept.

“I’m no good at _Risk_ ,” said Harry.

Draco smiled.

“You can be on my team,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more war trauma up top, also I suspect you guys will HATE this chapter lol

This particular round of what Harry privately thought of as _self-indulgent moping_ lasted about a month. He startled at unexpected sounds. At random intervals, his hands would shake so badly he would have to step away from his desk rather than risk dropping a cursed object. He was plagued with dreams he hesitated to call nightmares, because they weren’t horrific, only guilt-inducing.

One recurring dream featured Colin Creevey. In the dream, Harry ran towards the quidditch pitch. Colin ran after him, his camera covering his face, saying _Don’t leave me! Don’t leave!_ When Harry stopped, Colin lowered the camera, and became as he had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. Pale, incongruously peaceful. And he said it again: _Don’t leave me._

Harry awoke from these dreams just _hating_ himself. They didn’t frighten him, or make him panic, which was why he didn’t term them nightmares. No: they were just dreams about people needing him, and not receiving help.

He would sit up, and the kitten would open his sleepy eyes and yawn, and Harry would scratch him behind the ears until he purred. Because the kitten was always there, that month. Harry was so overwhelmed that he didn’t really think about it. He just took it for granted that every night, Draco got stressed, transformed, and came to sleep in his bed. The kitten was a blessedly light sleeper. He woke up with Harry and went to sleep with Harry, so easily, so unobtrusively.

Perhaps Harry would have noticed quicker that something had changed if Draco’s behaviour had altered when he was himself. But it hadn’t. Draco was tentatively friendly, wary of making of jokes. He continued to have friends over all the time, and relax around them in ways he never would around Harry. And Harry was too busy not sinking to question what it was that stressed Draco so regularly.

Draco was usually himself by morning. He tended to slip away without much fuss, but occasionally he stayed for a while, not quite touching Harry, and they watched each other. It was weird, of course, and at first Harry had worried about it—about whether he was making a fool of himself—but Draco didn’t mention it, and neither did Harry, so it just became something they did.

Things got better slowly. They always did, which was one of the reasons Harry felt so stupid for letting it get to him, when he _knew_ these episodes were only temporary. He soon found he could sleep through the night without waking himself with dreams, and he got hungry at mealtimes again, and stopped crying at unpredictable moments throughout the day. It was easier to be alive.

Draco was awake before him, that morning. Harry woke up and found that he was watching him. Harry closed his eyes, something soothing settling over his heart.

“It wasn’t the war that was vivid,” said Draco.

Harry opened his eyes.

“That’s just being young,” said Draco.

“I… what?”

“I miss it too. The vividness. But just because we were young during a war doesn’t mean war was responsible for everything that was lovely about our youth.”

“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” said Harry. “You understand everything when you’re a fucking kitten!”

He was sort of more amused than annoyed, but Draco’s face went completely white, and he rolled out of bed in one swift motion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight and frightened.

“Hey,” said Harry.

“I don’t understand everything. It’s a bit blurry. Some things linger. I’m sorry.”

“Draco,” said Harry, getting out of bed and going to where Draco stood, fully dressed in his clothes from the day before, head bowed.

“I should have told you,” he said, looking so _defeated_.

“Has the curse changed?” asked Harry, the question occurring to him for the first time. “You’ve been turning so much more often.”

“No,” said Draco, but Harry didn’t believe him.

“I can’t help you break it if you don’t tell me things.”

“It hasn’t changed.”

“Then why are you—”

Draco finally met his eyes, and he looked a bit pissed off, now.

“I know how to stress myself out, okay?”

“What?”

“I knew you didn’t want _my_ company, but it’s pretty straightforward getting myself to transform. I’ve been firecalling my father every evening, that’s all.”

Harry stared at him. His feelings were at a bottleneck, too many of them at once—gratitude and pity and guilt, and love, of course.

“Say something,” said Draco, his voice rising unhappily.

But Harry couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and took Draco’s hand. Draco let him. Let Harry run his index over the tip of each finger.

“Do you miss having claws?” asked Harry. He hadn’t meant to ask it. It had just come out.

“No,” said Draco. His voice was strained.

Harry touched each of Draco’s fingers, sweeping his index up their long narrow length, stopping at the last knuckle before moving on to the next. The pale hairs on Draco’s arm stood up on end, and when Harry had done one hand, Draco gave him the other as obediently as if Harry had commanded it.

“It feels good. When you stroke me,” said Draco.

“When you’re a kitten?”

Draco shook his head.

“Whenever,” he said. Harry caught his breath.

“Don’t transform before you come to me, anymore,” he said. “Just come to me.”

He ran his index across Draco’s knuckles, then let him go. Draco swallowed.

“If you want to, I mean,” added Harry. “You don’t have to.”

Draco stood uncertainly for a moment, then said,

“One of our regulars submitted an article yesterday that I’m pretty sure’s offensive to hags, so I’ve got to go deal with that.”

“Someone’s got to look out for the hags,” said Harry.

“I’m just doing it so Hermione will fancy me.”

“I assumed.”

Draco made a halted attempt to step towards Harry, said, “Yeah, so—” and left.

Harry could hardly concentrate at work that day. His mind strayed to Draco’s hitched breath, his pliant fingers, the way he had said _“It feels good. When you stroke me.”_

Harry knew he could be a bit oblivious, but the moment had been intimate. A step towards something Harry hadn’t realised how much he wanted until it was there in front of him: Draco, in his bedroom, caring for Harry, letting Harry care back.

Harry knew that Draco could get anyone he wanted. It was something Harry maybe resented a bit, when he was honest with himself—the degree to which everyone seemed willing to let old sins go. He thought Draco deserved to be forgiven, or at least for his change to be accepted, but it felt as if forgiveness had happened so easily. As if it was less of a choice than a surrender. It was too difficult to decide what people deserved after the war, so a decision had simply and quickly been made, and stuck to.

If the decision had gone the other way—if Draco had been unquestioningly reviled and ostracised—Harry would have disliked that, too.

And, in fact, none of it was really about Draco.

The point was that Draco was gorgeous, popular, rich and successful. Harry was spent. Draco was an ascendent power, and Harry a waning one. He did not delude himself into thinking they were equals. They had never been equals. Immediately after the war, Draco had been nothing, and Harry had been the single most famous person in Britain. Now, photographers followed Draco on the street. Harry, meanwhile, was spoken about in the same bored and respectful tones as the Minister for Finance.

He and Draco were both very lucky, Harry reminded himself. Harry was good at appreciating what he had, although his appreciation was more punitive than grateful. _Look at what you have. Look at it. Look at it. How dare you_.

But despite the many, many reasons Harry knew Draco had not to want to be with him (he was heartbroken over Neville still, wasn’t he?), Harry also knew that Draco liked it when Harry stroked him. That he had let Harry touch his hands worshipfully. That he had deliberately stressed himself out so that he could comfort Harry every night.

Harry left work early, feeling braver than he had in years.

Draco was making cocktails in the kitchen. He turned around when Harry came in, a bright, false smile on his face.

“Harry! You’re home early. Mojito?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” said Harry. Draco turned back to the counter and began cutting a lime.

“Me, too. Wanted to be the first to tell you the good news,” he said, and Harry had a presentiment that whatever the good news was, Harry was not going to like it.

“That Jesus died for our sins?” he said, laying his briefcase on the kitchen table.

“Ha. No,” said Draco. “Neville and I got back together. Would you fetch the rum out of the liquor cabinet?”

Harry felt a complicated, looping sort of sensation in his insides, like falling off a broom.

“What?” he said. His voice sounded oddly hollow. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about rum,” said Draco.

“Draco. Look at me.”

Draco turned around, wiping his hands on his jeans. He did not meet Harry’s eyes.

“This is a bad and stupid idea,” said Harry, slowly, enunciating each word. “Do not do this. He cheated on you. He was a dick about it. He called you a—”

Draco put up a hand, and Harry stopped instantly.

“We weren’t communicating well for a while, and that was my fault as well as his,” said Draco. “But we’ve been working on it, and…”

“On your _birthday_!”

Draco’s eyes flashed up to Harry’s, angry and sharp.

“I _remember_ , thanks,” he said. “And I hardly think _I’m_ in a position to hold a grudge against _Neville_. Of all people, I am well-versed in the importance of forgiveness.”

“What, so because of the war you’re fine with being in a bad relationship?”

Draco’s cheeks were pink. Harry remembered this from school, the way Draco flushed when he felt spiteful and hunted.

“You don’t know a thing about me and Neville,” he said. “Don’t pretend you do.”

“He didn’t notice that he was hurting you during—”

“The sex has been good lately,” interrupted Draco.

“ _Lately_ ,” said Harry. “When have you—” he stopped when he saw Draco’s expression. “Oh. You never stopped sleeping with him.”

Draco shook his head.

“He loves me, and I love him. That’s…so much more than I _ever_ thought I would have. So don’t you stand there, Harry, and tell me I can’t have it. You said,” and suddenly, all at once, Draco was near tears, “you _said_ we were friends, _you_ said that, and I believed you because you’re _you_ and I trusted you not to lie. So if that’s not…”

He stopped and tipped his head to look at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. The tears came anyway, and he at wiped them with his wrist.

“If you don’t think I deserve to be loved, then—then you lied, because that’s not fucking friendship,” he said, lowering his chin on the last word to look defiantly at Harry.

“What? Obviously I think you deserve to be…” he stumbled over the word, and Draco laughed, wiping away fresh tears.

“You can’t even say it,” he said.

“Right, yeah, and we all know I have a healthy attitude to love. But no, this is so clearly all about you, isn’t it,” said Harry. He instantly wished he could take it back, because Draco looked stricken.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco. “You’re right. I don’t understand you at all. But I really hoped you would be happy for me. Neville _loves_ me.”

“You can love someone and not deserve them.”

Draco smiled; a quick, brave, anguished thing.

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Silence fell heavily between them.

“Well,” said Harry. “If you love him, that’s good, then, I guess.”

Harry was so stupid. And in a way it made sense; he and Neville had always been destined for similar things, to have lives that doubled each other. It made sense that they would both fall for the same person. And it was Neville’s turn, now, to be chosen.

“Anyway, it’s good news for you,” said Draco, “because I’m moving out. Neville can keep me under house arrest, instead.”

Harry couldn’t tell if Draco was being glib, or if he meant it. If living with Harry had been a prison sentence, with Harry as gaoler.

“When?” he managed to ask.

“Tonight. Now. My bags are packed already.”

“Is it because—” the last of Harry’s courage petered out, and he didn’t say what he had intended: _is it because of this morning? Is it because of how I touched you? Is it because I’m in love with you?_ “—because you’re scared of me?”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco, beginning to put away the glasses he had got out for cocktails.

“Is that why you’re leaving in such a hurry.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Draco. “I’m just getting out of your hair.”

“You weren’t in my hair,” said Harry.

“You should come over soon. Nev and I are planning on getting a television so we can watch this weird muggle show Dean told us about. Doctor What? About time travel? _Very_ inaccurate apparently, but Dean says it’s fun. Anyway, I’ve never had a television. My father nearly had a heart attack when I told him. Will you come over? You don’t have to.”

As Draco rambled, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. Harry followed. Watched as Draco picked up two neat leather suitcases.

“Will you be safe?” asked Harry. “With Neville?”

Draco frowned.

“Are you… what do you mean? Because if you’re asking if Neville would ever hurt me, he wouldn’t. He’s an idiot, but he’s not…”

“No, I… I mean, that’s good to know. But I meant, if the person who cursed you comes for you. Can Neville keep you safe?”

“Oh,” said Draco. He straightened up, dropping one suitcase to push his hair out of his face. He looked surprised. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

“I know I’ve been useless,” said Harry, because he had. He had let Draco down. He was suddenly aware that he had barely tried at all to break the curse, because he had known that once the curse was broken, Draco would move out, with his playful laugh, his serious grey eyes, his warm, kittenish shape in the night. And now Draco was moving out anyway, and Harry hadn’t helped him. Hadn’t pulled through when Draco needed him.

Draco put out a hand as if to touch Harry, then drew it back.

“Harry. No,” he said. “No, you’ve been…”

There was a silence, during which Harry realised he was going to cry if Draco didn’t leave soon.

“It’s been a pleasure,” finished Draco. “Sincerely. A pleasure.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t speak, because his voice would have given him away.

“Well. Goodbye for now,” said Draco. Harry nodded again, and Draco looked so sad. Harry stuck out his hand. Draco looked at it for a second, then shook it.

“Thank you,” said Draco.

He hesitated as he picked up the suitcases. Harry watched him. He hadn’t known what he was going to say to Draco when he came home from work. Certainly he hadn’t planned on professing undying love. But he had imagined touching Draco again, gently, until Draco leant into him. Until Draco let him kiss him.

Draco went to the stairs, then paused. He glanced at Harry. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

“What,” said Harry.

“I am scared of you,” said Draco. And he looked it. He looked as if he was doing something dangerous, and couldn’t believe he was going through with it. “Terrified. But not because you’re frightening.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. When he opened them, Draco was halfway down the stairs.

Harry went to his bedroom and shut the door so that he wouldn’t hear Draco using the floo to leave.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your distressed comments only make me WORSE (and are very lovely to read, thank you!!)

“I know. But there’s no getting through to him,” said Ron.

“If you’d _heard_ the fight they had the day Draco first moved in…!” said Harry.

He had waited until the next day to speak to Ron and Hermione. The night Draco went back to Neville, Harry had just gone to bed. It was peculiar, how different heartbreak felt to the usual ways he experienced misery. He was conscious, even as the loneliness tore at him, that it was a much friendlier sort of unhappiness. The war memories felt mechanical, somehow, as if they weren’t emotions designed to be felt by humans. This pain, if nothing else, was human, and Harry was grateful to Draco for that.

“They’re not always that bad,” said Hermione. “They can be rather sweet.”

“Yeah, but it’s still shit Draco took him back,” said Ron.

“Yes. It is,” said Hermione. They were at their local pub, a muggle one where they were never disturbed.

“It would be one thing if Neville had actually felt guilty, but he kept blaming Draco…!” said Harry.

“We’ve both talked to Draco,” said Hermione. “But he’s obstinate. And ultimately, you can’t force people to break up, even if you wish they would.”

“They’re both a bit fucked up, to be honest,” said Ron. “I’m not sure either of them would do better elsewhere.”

“So that’s it?” said Harry. “We’re all just doomed to be trapped in shitty relationships if we didn’t have the foresight to fall in love in fucking fourth year like you two?”

Ron and Hermione fell silent.

“Sorry,” muttered Harry.

“Harry, mate,” said Ron. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Need another drink,” said Harry, and went to the bar.

“Ye-es, it is rather a shame,” said Blaise. They were having lunch together at a trendy restaurant that only sold extremely elaborate savoury tarts.

“And it’s only because he doesn’t think he deserves better,” said Harry, angrily spiking his fork into his lavender, fennel and earl grey tart.

“Correct. Yes,” said Blaise, but he seemed distracted.

“And now he’s living with Neville, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be a dick, but to be honest I’m not at all sure Neville could handle it if the assailant came back and tried to finish Draco off!”

“Ah,” said Blaise, carefully laying down his cutlery and folding up his napkin. “I’m glad you brought that up. There’s something I’ve been meaning to have a friendly chat with you about.”

“What?”

Blaise smiled nervously.

“Well, if I tell you, you have to promise not to put me in prison,” he said.

“…what did you do? I can’t promise that.”

“Then I can’t tell you,” said Blaise. “Shall we get the bill?”

“Blaise.”

“The fact is, Harry, I’m not a _prison-y_ sort of person. _You’d_ do very well in prison. I’m quite sure you’d find it most illuminating. But people like _me_ are better suited to, oh, _Paris_.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing _very_ bad,” said Blaise. “And you’re fond of me. Just promise.”

Harry made an exasperated sound.

“I promise. Tell me.”

Blaise bit his lip.

“Well, I may or may not have given a friend of ours a condition known, in medical circles, as…”

“Oh, you didn’t.”

“…stress-catism,” finished Blaise.

Harry took a second. Then:

“Blaise. What the fuck.”

“I think once you hear my reasoning—”

“Someone threw him in the Thames!”

“ _I_ threw him in the Thames,” said Blaise.

It wasn’t funny anymore. Harry was cold with anger.

“Why.”

“Well, I had to make it seem like a serious threat. Otherwise there’d have been no cause for him to move in with you. Anyway, I was on hand to rescue him! I have such a sweet little cousin in Highgate, and she very obligingly gave me one of her hairs for my polyjuice. Generally, I’m not terribly fond of small children, but—”

“Explain. Yourself.”

Blaise looked rather abashed.

“Yes. All right,” he said, and his voice lost most of its theatricality, becoming clipped and business-like. “We all know you’re not keen on Draco—”

“Jesus,” said Harry, “what a fucking mess.”

“—and we all know how Draco feels about _you_ , and—”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“Oh, clearly we were mistaken, but Pansy and Nott and I thought he was quite enamoured. Neville thought so too, you know. Anyway, after the _debacle_ of his birthday, he was… well, in a pretty bad way, and I thought… stop looking at me like that, Harry, it’s very distracting. I know you want to hex me; restrain yourself.”

“You’re making it very difficult,” said Harry.

“I thought if you were somehow forced to spend time with him, you’d come around. And that he might not go back to Neville. So there you have it. My grand plan.”

“You do realise,” said Harry, through gritted teeth, “that Draco is morbidly afraid of someone killing him because of what he did in the war?”

Blaise sighed.

“It wasn’t my finest _complot_ , I’ll admit,” he said. “But… in all seriousness, Harry, I was worried about him. I see now that all my scheming has come to nothing, but it was worth it if there was even the smallest chance it would…” he twisted his mouth. “Change the path he was on. But it didn’t. So. Are you going to put me in prison?”

Harry thought before answering.

“I said I wouldn’t,” he said, finally. “But you have to tell Draco.”

“Ah. Is there a way that might be avoided? You see—”

“No,” said Harry. “You tell him, or I will. He needs to know that no one was trying to hurt him. Jesus. Slytherins are fucked in the head.”

Blaise motioned to the waiter for the bill.

“That’s a matter of perspective,” he said. The waiter approached with the bill. “Ah, thank you _so_ much! My tart was _scrumptious_. But then, aren’t they always?”

“You have to come,” said Dean. Seamus picked up a cursed wallet and yelped as it set his hand on fire. Harry put out the flames with his wand.

“I told you not to touch anything,” he said, rustling in his desk drawer for burn salve.

“Sweet and merciful Jesus! That fucking hurt,” said Seamus. “Do you have any sex curses in here, Harry?”

“What you don’t get is that Doctor Who _travels through time_ ,” said Dean, as if nothing had happened.

“Yeah, no, I picked up on that, actually,” said Harry, rubbing the salve on Seamus’ burn. “Seamus, don’t touch anything with mercury in it until the Spring Equinox, or you’ll die.”

“Wicked,” said Seamus. “What’s this?”

“Don’t _touch_ anything!” cried Harry, but it was too late, and Seamus sprouted wings out of his head.

“He has a companion,” said Dean, looking supremely unconcerned about Seamus’ head-wings. “And the companion goes with him on his adventures.”

“I understand the premise of _Doctor Who,_ Dean,” said Harry, who was trying to pull Seamus down from the ceiling by his ankle.

“I don’t like it, Harry,” said Seamus. “Make it stop.”

“Can you two seriously stop visiting me at work?” asked Harry, transfiguring his tie into a leash and collar. “Here. Put this on.”

Seamus took it with interest.

“Is this part of your BDSM thing?”

“What BDSM thing?” said Harry.

“See, I don’t think you _can_ have understood the premise, because if you did, you’d be coming to Draco and Neville’s viewing party,” said Dean.

“Blaise says you’ve got a sex dungeon,” said Seamus, putting on the collar. “And that you made Draco crawl around on the floor wearing a latex body suit.”

Harry groaned.

“Did you really?” asked Dean. “And Draco did it?” He looked pensive. “I see that. Draco’s got a subby vibe.”

Harry handed Seamus’ leash to Dean.

“Both of you get out. I’ll see you on Saturday for _Doctor Who_ ,” he said. Dean cheered, and Seamus gave a hawkish screech.

“Uh, Harry, Seamus is developing a beak,” said Dean.

“Yes, that’ll happen when you touch the Bird’s Prey keychain, like a twat,” said Harry. “Take him to St Mungo’s.”

“Anyone want some coke?” asked Pansy, and Theo Nott swatted her face with his huge hand.

“Read the room, Pans. Not that kind of night,” he said. Pansy shrugged and poured some out onto one of Neville’s coffee table books about South American plant life.

“Oh, Pansy, not that one, it’s really expensive,” said Neville.

Harry hadn’t seen Draco yet. Ron sat on Hermione’s lap, and she needed the loo and kept giggling and saying “Stop, _stop!_ I’ll wee on you!” to which Ron responded by waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Goyle was telling anyone who would listen that the secret to his guacamole was Tabasco sauce. Seamus looked very gloomy about his beak and the thick white feathers on his head, although Harry personally thought he’d got off easy: the wings, at least, were gone. Ginny and Luna cuddled together in a tiny armchair that was certainly not big enough for two people.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry asked Dean.

“The Doctor is nine hundred years old,” said Dean. “Can you believe that?”

Harry tried Marcus Flint, who was an eminently sensible person when he wasn’t trying to crush you at quidditch.

“Talking to Blaise, I think,” he said.

“Okay, okay,” said Neville, to the room at large. “Everybody listen up.”

“Let’s go clubbing,” said Pansy, her eyes glassy and dilated. Theo Nott swatted her face again.

“All right. Dean Thomas is going to give us a recap of _Doctor Who_ so far, and then it’ll be time for the show,” said Neville. “People who haven’t seen television before: it’s bloody weird but we’re all in it together.”

Everyone cheered, and Dean began to monologue about Doctors past and present.

Harry slipped out of the room, and found Draco and Blaise laughing on the stairs.

“Blaise,” said Harry, and he must have sounded rather threatening, because they both stood, and Draco brushed quickly past Harry, saying “I’m glad you came” in an undertone as he left.

“Hallo, Harry,” drawled Blaise. “Did you come to the aid of many haplessly cursed muggles this week?”

“You said you’d tell him,” said Harry. Blaise looked surprised.

“But I did.”

“You—but—”

Blaise cocked his head.

“Harry. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d thought he’d _mind_.”

“He _forgave_ you?”

“Our Draco’s quite big on forgiveness, these days,” said Blaise. “But even so. I told you. Deceit is not the way to wound Draco. Neglect—cruelty—simply not _caring_ —those are all _most_ effective, but lying? No, no, no.”

That old, Dumbledore-shaped anger rose up in Harry’s chest.

“I’ve been cared about by people like you,” he said. “I fucking remember what it’s like.”

Blaise frowned. Harry had the sense that he’d hurt his feelings, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Harry!” came Ginny’s voice from the sitting room. “Get back in here, you’re missing the beginning!”

He didn’t think anyone had noticed him leaving. Blaise hooked his arm through Harry’s, and said,

“Forgive me, won’t you?”

“It’s not on me to forgive you,” said Harry.

“No, but do, all the same,” said Blaise, then went to sit between Pansy and Theo.

“Blaise sandwich,” said Pansy, and she and Theo both leant in to kiss his cheeks. “Can we go clubbing yet?”

“Calm down, cokey,” said Theo. Blaise rested his head on Theo’s shoulder and closed his eyes, and Harry knew he _would_ forgive him, because it was simply easier.

There was a spot free next to Draco, but Harry sat on the floor by Ginny and Luna instead. They both began to braid his hair. And it was nice, really, having so many friends who knew and liked each other. Harry had a good job and good friends and sometimes that was the most frightening thing of all: that there was no reason for the bleakness.

When the adverts came on, Harry slipped into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. They had a lovely kitchen; Neville and Draco. Neville loved to cook and Draco loved to host, and consequently the counters were lined with glass jars of pasta and rice and sugar, and the window bloomed with pots of basil and mint and rosemary. It was clean and well-lit, the bright home of two people in love.

Harry filled the copper kettle and put it on the hob, trying not to notice how shiny the copper was, how neat the hob.

“You came,” said a voice. Draco. Harry’s head snapped up. Draco came into the room for once, and closed the door behind him, although he did then slouch against the larder door in his typical fashion.

“Couldn’t miss _Doctor Who_ ,” said Harry. “Dean threatened to find the script online and read it to me if I didn’t come.”

“He’s dedicated,” said Draco. His gaze was too intense. Harry could feel it all over his body, even though Draco only looked at his face. “How have you been?”

“Good, yeah,” said Harry. “And you?”

Draco gave him an exasperated look.

“No,” he said. “I was _actually_ asking. Come on.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m… better, yeah. You caught me at a weird moment, when you were staying at mine. I was in a bit of a mopey phase.”

Draco hoisted himself up to sit on the counter, then tilted his head.

“And what does a mopey phase look like, for Harry Potter?”

Harry didn’t know what to do with his hands. He rested them on the counter in front of him, not looking at Draco more than he had to.

“You know. The usual.”

Draco shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know. Tell me.”

Harry could feel the heat creeping into his face.

“Just, weird dreams, shit like that. Being a bit weepy for no reason. But it’s all right now.”

Draco gave a quiet laugh.

“All resolved, is it?”

Harry cleared his throat.

“How’ve you been? Fucking _Blaise…_!”

Draco laughed, louder this time.

“Blaise! I _know_! And when I think of how much time I spent kittening around—he lifted it, by the way.”

“But you two are good now? Just like that?”

Draco didn’t answer for a moment. He kicked his feet against the cabinets.

“Harry,” he said, in a tone that Harry hadn’t expected him ever to use again. “…Harry, are you aware that you have a lot of friends?”

Harry was silent.

“And that they’d all be there for you in a heartbeat, if you wanted?” said Draco.

Harry felt a tightness in his throat.

“They‘re busy,” he mumbled.

“I’m not busy,” said Draco, and Harry laughed.

“You’re the _busiest_. You have a full-time job and eight million friends and a boyfriend.”

“But it’s a matter of prioritisation. And I’d always prioritise you.”

Harry looked up, then. Draco was so painfully handsome. So gorgeous, and so inexplicably unavailable.

“You’d prioritise me,” repeated Harry.

“Always,” said Draco.

They stared at each other for a long, heady beat. Then Harry broke his eyes away.

“That’s stupid. We’re not even close friends.”

“Oh,” said Draco, “well in that case, fuck you, I hope you die under a bridge.”

Harry laughed.

“I wasn’t saying—just. You only started _talking_ to me recently.”

“But don’t you think…” said Draco. “I don’t know. Don’t you think…”

Harry wasn’t sure what gave him the courage, but he went to stand in front of Draco, who widened his knees so that Harry could come between them. They were barely touching, but they were close enough to kiss.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah. That with everything you and I have been through, it’s…”

“We almost understand each other already,” said Draco. Still watching him intently, as if he was trying to guess what Harry would say before he said it.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“What if I wanted to be close friends with you,” said Draco. “What if I wanted you to tell me, the next time you felt… mopey.”

Harry leant his head forward into Draco’s chest, and Draco put his hand to Harry’s hair, touched the braids Ginny and Luna had left.

“How are things with Neville?” asked Harry. Draco’s fingers didn’t falter in his hair.

“Good. We’re talking a lot more.”

Harry stepped away.

“That’s great,” he said.

Draco paused.

“Yeah,” he said.

He stayed in the kitchen after Harry left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drug use (MDMA) and a brief mention of a suicidal character
> 
> Oh ye of little faith in the comments. Do you really think kitten!Draco is not coming back? HE WILL.

Harry wasn’t sure where that left them. It was pretty obvious that he and Draco were drawn to each other, but also that Draco had no intention of breaking up with Neville, and what was Harry supposed to do with that?

Go to quidditch matches with Draco, apparently. Draco became rather aggressive about pursuing their friendship. _Aggressively. And with ulterior motives_ , he had said, about how he had befriended Ron and Hermione. Harry wondered if there was an ulterior motive now, and, if there was, whether Draco had any idea what he was doing.

At night, on bad days, Harry saw everything very clearly. Draco was in love with Neville, and felt sorry for Harry because Harry was pathetic and washed up and embarrassing. At night, on bad days, Harry understood that it was shameful that he saw Draco at all, when the dynamics between them were so uneven: Draco knowing that Harry loved him, and Draco feeling nothing but pity in return.

But those moments of miserable clarity gave way, in the day, to a more muddled _need_. So he never turned Draco down, even though half the time Neville came too.

The first time Neville came with them to a quidditch match, he waited till Draco went to the loo to have A Proper Talk.

“I know you shagged Draco,” he said. Harry jerked his head around to stare at him.

“What? Did _he_ tell you that?”

“No,” said Neville, bitterly. “He said you didn’t.”

“Right. And you don’t believe him?”

“All Slytherins lie,” said Neville, his jaw tight. Harry wanted to shake him, because actually he sort of agreed, but—

“You’re supposed to trust your boyfriend, though,” he said.

Neville just pressed his forehead into Harry’s shoulder.

“ _Please_ ,” he said. “ _Please_ let me have this.”

“I’m not…!” said Harry. “I’m not _doing_ anything!”

“Cuddling without me, boys?” said Draco, sliding between them on the bench and giving Neville a quick peck on the mouth.

Harry wanted to confide in someone, and he knew Ron and Hermione would have been receptive and kind, but there was something about their united front that made him dread the thought. He considered Luna, and Ginny, and even Marcus Flint, but in the end it was Pansy he told.

She came in through the floo at ten p.m. on a Tuesday, gurning her face off and high as a kite.

“Harry! I brought you something,” she said, and gave him the lollipop she had been sucking on.

“Er, thanks, Pans.”

“Do you have any ice?” she asked. Huge pupils, sweaty, wearing old workout clothes and no make up, her jaw working horribly as her muscles clenched.

“Do you often get high by yourself, Pansy?” asked Harry, filling a glass with ice and giving it to her. She picked up a wedge of ice and put it down the front of her top.

“Yes,” she said, lolling her head. “Is that bad?”

“It’s not great,” said Harry.

“Want some ice?”

“No, thanks.”

“Feels good,” she said. “It’s good to feel good, for once.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, with a small smile. “I get that.”

They ended up on the floor in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pointing and flexing her toes. She kept alternating between rubbing ice all over her skin, and wrapping herself in thick blankets.

“It’s okay,” said Harry.

“I was scared, I thought he would kill everyone,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, Pansy, it’s fine. We’ve been over this.”

“It would be so sad if you were dead.”

Harry wanted to divert her thoughts, because her gurning had got worse, and her lips were beginning to bleed.

“I think I’m in love with Draco,” he said. Pansy’s chewed-up mouth spread into a wide smile.

“Ohhh!” she said, dreamily. “That’s good! He loves you too.”

Harry shook his head.

“He’s not right for you, though,” said Pansy. “He’s all fucked up.” She stretched her hands above her head and rolled her neck. “He and Neville can be fucked up together.”

It felt childish to say _But I’m fucked up too._ Anyway, maybe he wasn’t, compared with other people.

When she began to come down, he took her up to his bedroom, and held her when she asked him to, even though her muscles kept twitching and she smoked spliff after spliff, ashing on the pillowcase. Occasionally, she punctured his twilight sleep with sad little statements like, “I _tried_ meditation,” or “Dean made me go to therapy but it didn’t work. He said it would work.” They were iceberg stories, the tips of a whole miserable existence, and Harry had no way to answer.

It was past noon when she woke up. Harry had taken the day off work to look after her. He brought up a tray of wholewheat pancakes, orange juice, and tea.

“Harry,” she said blankly, when she saw the tray. She looked pretty, in a tired, _rescue-me_ sort of way. “Were you always this lovely?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Of course. Famously lovely.”

Pansy lunged forward and kissed him. Harry started away.

“Pansy…”

“Oh, God,” she said, and began to cry. Harry sat awkwardly next to her on the bed and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m beyond pathetic. I mean, compared to you, I have no reason at all…”

“No,” said Harry. “I don’t think that. You’ve been through hell, we all have, of course you’re not over it. No one expects you to be.”

It was like tickling, he realised. You couldn’t tickle yourself. He could say those words to Pansy and mean them, but applied to himself they lost all their effect.

“How can you be so nice to me,” she wept, “when I was awful my _entire_ life…”

“You’re not awful now,” said Harry.

“I’m a little awful,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “Anyway, it’s better, liking you. It’s so much nicer. I wish we could have liked each other all along.”

Pansy raised her head to look at him, silvery tears clinging to her eyelashes.

“You have no idea how much we look up to you,” she said.

“Er,” said Harry. “ _We?_ ”

“All of us. Our friends. Everyone.”

Harry stared at her, momentarily stunned by the notion that anyone he knew might still admire him.

“You’ve really got your shit together,” she said.

It was like a blow. He turned away and tried to smile.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. He stood. “Eat your pancakes, they’ll get cold. Here, let me heal your mouth first.”

A few hours later, she had eaten and showered and cried again. She hugged him goodbye.

“Pansy… don’t tell anyone what I said. About Draco.”

“I won’t.”

“Not even for some conniving Slytherin reason. Please.”

She looked up.

“Okay. I _really_ won’t.” She bit her lip. “Please don’t tell anyone that I tried to kiss you.”

“When? You must have dreamt it,” said Harry.

She looked him seriously in the eye.

“I won’t ever forget how kind you were to me today.”

“Anytime,” said Harry.

“Oh, she’s all right,” said Draco, stopping to sample some cheese at the cheese stall. At his insistence, he and Harry went to the farmer’s market every Saturday. “Pansy’s always been a bit wild.”

“There’s wild, and then there’s taking pills by yourself on a Tuesday,” said Harry. “She’s not okay, Draco.”

Draco bought a St Saint-Félicien cheese in a ceramic dish.

“Hold this,” he said, handing Harry a large bouquet of sunflowers. They smelled fresh and summery, and it occurred to Harry that he didn’t have less money than Draco did. He just spent it on worse things: meal deal sandwiches from the chemist’s on the way to the office, lukewarm bottles of Sprite, out-of-season fruit.

When Draco had finished paying, he turned his attention back on Harry.

“Fine,” he said. “If you must know, Pansy has a drug problem, and none of us have any idea what to do about it.”

“I thought no one knew,” said Harry. “ _I_ didn’t know, really.”

“It’s because she’s witty when she talks about it. It can be hard to know when she’s serious. Blaise is like that, too. He spent the whole year he was nineteen making suicide jokes and we didn’t find out till last year that he actually attempted it twice.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Draco took the sunflowers back from him.

“Maybe we should all see terapthrists,” he said.

“Er, terapthrists?” asked Harry.

“Yes, you know, Dean’s always banging on about them. By the way, have you noticed how few muggle-borns we’re friends with, as a group? It’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” said Harry.

“I think about it all the time,” said Draco, gloomily.

“Did you mean _therapists_?” asked Harry.

“Is that not what I said?”

“You said terapthrists.”

“Well, fuck,” said Draco. “I’ve been telling everyone about terapthrists.”

“Pansy said she went, and it didn’t help,” said Harry.

“Pansy just thought her terapthrist was stupid. Sorry, what’s the word again?”

“Therapist.”

Draco closed his eyes.

“Therapist, therapist, therapist,” he murmured. “ _The-ra-pist_. My father says muggle words are harder to pronounce, but Hermione says that if muggle-borns can learn to pronounce _Elphias Doge_ , wizards can figure out how to say exceltricity.”

“Electricity,” corrected Harry.

“Fuck!”

Harry laughed at him, and Draco knocked into him with one shoulder, a shy grin on his face.

“Anyway. I might go to one,” said Draco. “Dean says it’s just someone you pay money to talk to about yourself. I pay money for all sorts of things I enjoy _far_ less than talking about myself.”

“I don’t like talking about myself,” said Harry.

Draco sighed.

“It’s been awful discovering that all your qualities are genuine,” he said.

“Is that a quality?”

“Humility? Of course,” said Draco.

Harry wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t fancy dissecting his flaws with Draco, whose hair shone silvery white in the morning sun, and who seemed so very contented.

They spent a lot of time together, in those months. Draco grew slowly more comfortable around Harry, although he still occasionally froze up when he made a joke, and became formal and academic as he explained that the joke did not, in fact, represent his views.

“Draco. I know you wouldn’t actually punch Ron,” said Harry.

“Because I don’t want to. And even if I wanted to, violence is never the answer.”

Harry thought of casting the Cruciatus curse on Amycus Carrow.

“Sometimes it’s the answer,” he said.

Draco’s eyes became rather panicky.

“Er,” he said.

“Calm down. Okay. As a general rule, violence is not the answer,” said Harry, and they went back to their game of Exploding Snap.

They went flying together. Harry had dinner with Draco and Neville at their perfect fucking house. They went to quidditch matches, and board game nights at Ron and Hermione’s. When Luna threw an Elucidation Ceremony, Draco stood tensely beside Harry at the stone circle and waved his burning sage.

“Okay?” Harry asked him, quietly. Draco’s eyes kept flicking between Neville and Luna, although Neville and Luna were both ostentatiously not looking at each other.

“Yes,” said Draco.

“How can I not be okay with it,” said Draco, two days later, at the pub he and Harry liked to go to. “It’s _Luna_. I mean, let’s break it down, shall we?”

He was gesticulating too much, not meeting Harry’s eye. Harry wondered if he had talked to anyone else about this. It didn’t seem like he had—the words felt fresh and unspilled, and Harry was puzzled by that. When had he become Draco’s first choice for anything?

“A) _Luna is my cousin,_ ” said Draco. “And I know, I know, _I_ of all people should be aware that just because someone is in your family doesn’t mean that they’re, uh… it doesn’t mean…” he stopped. Put his head in his hands.

“But family can still be important to you, all the same,” said Harry. Draco cast him a grateful look.

“Yes. Precisely. Which leads us to point b), _I love her_. She is—or she was—someone I thought of with pure and unadulterated affection, and the fact that that’s more complicated now is absolute shite, basically. God, am I the most boring person in this pub?”

“The guys over there are talking about finance,” said Harry. “I overheard them when I was getting our drinks.”

“Oh, good. That’s a relief. Just the most boring person at this table, then.”

“I’m not bored,” said Harry.

“Well, you’re very polite. Point c) is in many ways the most salient, perhaps I should have begun with it. Okay, yes: call it point a): _I imprisoned her in my dungeon for—_ ”

He put his head back in hands.

“Draco,” said Harry.

“— _a year._ So. That’s the first point to consider. Because, um, that’s quite a bit worse than sleeping with someone’s boyfriend. By most standards. Maybe not if you’re a moral relativist. But certainly in our culture—not to generalise—but—”

“Draco.”

“—I think most people in our era and context would agree that, generally speaking, it’s worse to lock up a teenage girl for a year than to sleep with someone else’s boyfriend.”

“Okay,” said Harry, “but they’re both shit. Not equally shit, but still both definitively shit.”

“Do you want me to shut up?” asked Draco.

“No.”

Draco lifted his eyes wearily to the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t tell me, if you did. Okay. I’ll shut up.”

“It’s okay to feel complicated about Luna. _I_ feel complicated about Luna, since she did that. It was fucked up.”

“ _Neville’s_ the one who should have said no,” said Draco. He fiddled with a cardboard coaster, rolling it up and down the table with his palm. “Okay. No. It’s fine. You know what Oprah would say?”

“…Oprah?”

“God, having a television is great,” said Draco. “Yes. Oprah would probably tell me to, to forgive and move on. And you know what? I _have_.”

“You’ve moved on.”

“Yes,” said Draco, nodding forcefully. “Just now. Congratulate me; I’m enlightened.”

“You’re funny when you’re sad,” said Harry.

Draco gave him a strange look.

“Not always,” he said, and Harry was transported back to standing at the top of the stairs, to Draco telling him that he was scared, but not because Harry was frightening.

“No,” said Harry, and they stared at each other, suddenly so much more than friends.

They didn’t only hang out one-on-one, although they did that a lot. Draco had a habit of showing up at Grimmauld Place, wearing eyeliner and his black jacket with all the zippers, and forcing Harry to come out.

“I’m tired,” Harry would say.

“You have to come. _Millie_ is coming, and you know she never comes to parties.”

“I don’t want to get drunk.”

“Neither do I. Let’s be sober and bitch about the stupid drunks.”

“Where’s Neville?”

“Already there. Harry, come _on_ , Hermione said she was going to wear a _dress_.”

“Oh, well, in that case…!”

And it was easier to go out, when Draco was your particular friend, because he was always at the centre of everything, and he made it so effortless. He’d hold out a hand to Harry on a dance floor and pull him into a throng. If Harry left the room during a game of Charades at a house party, Draco would force the game to stop until Harry got back. He filled Harry in on in-jokes he didn’t understand, and included Harry in everything.

“You know,” he said to Harry once, “I think people worry so much about bothering you that they leave you out.”

Harry’s heart had sped up, although Harry wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was such a generous interpretation of Harry’s loneliness.

“Maybe,” he said. He smiled, hoping it seemed casual. “I like that you bother me.”

And they’d had another one of their moments, then, when Draco had looked at him with heavy meaningfulness, and Harry would have kissed him if it weren’t for the fact that Draco was happily dating someone else.


End file.
